


Haunted

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:58:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the night of Rhaegar and Elia's wedding, Doran Martell has a few things to say</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunted

**Author's Note:**

> Because unexpected Jon Connington feels, that's why.
> 
> Also I've been thinking lots about Doran and he seems to know everything.

The Dornish prince, the oldest brother, had been watching him all day. Even now at the wedding feast, when all eyes were trained on the Tyroshi fire jugglers who had taken to the stage, Doran Martell was staring at Jon Connington as though he was a Braavosi dancing bear.

It had so happened the prince had seemed to haunt Jon’s steps since the crack of dawn; he sat near to him at breakfast, near to him in the sept and, even now he had an assigned seat, it was most unfortunately within eye line of Jon’s. The Martell contingent was at the high table, Doran sat just to the right of his mother and he had a good view of the hall, even the Targaryan side where Jon was seated. He’d tried staring back, challenging the older man, testing his resolve but all his efforts had earned him was a small smile – a sad smile – and now he was trying to ignore him. It was difficult though – a prickly heat crept periodically up his neck and he could nothing to ease it.

He wondered if Martell could tell that he did not like Elia, if he’d picked up on the coldness between them. He was a good ten years older than all of them, had seen perhaps a little more of the world. He knew his sister. Perhaps he believed he knew Jon as well.

He knows nothing, Jon thought bitterly, risking a glance at the table and finding, to his relief, that Doran had looked away. By the gods, the man was dour. Aside from young Prince Oberyn, all of the damned Martells were made of a similar design. Elia looked as though she could cry at any moment, a stark comparison to Rhaegar – her new husband – who smiled and laughed and jested with his cousins and Arthur Dayne, who had been granted a seat at the table.

He’s trying so hard, Jon thought, and they don’t even realise. They don’t realise how hard he finds it to laugh.

“She’s a good match, Jon,” Rhaegar had said, just a few days before he was due to be wed, “It pleases my father. You know it means nothing to me. He can choose who he likes.”

“Yes, your grace,” Jon mumbled, standing beside his prince and looking out over the Blackwater, “Whomever he likes.”

The jugglers were gone and the band was back in their places. Rhaegar stood and offered his hand to his bride, who took it hesitantly and followed him out to the dance. She had a Dornish beauty, Jon was prepared to grant Elia that much, but compared to the grace of her husband she looked positively inelegant. The king applauded loudly – too loudly – and Jon suddenly felt as though he might be sick. He couldn’t watch any of it anymore. He lurched out of his seat, out of the hall towards one of the open balconies. People smirked as he struggled past them. They thought he was drunk. Perhaps he was. He didn’t feel as though he knew anything.

The cool air hit his face and his head cleared a little, enough that he could see again without his eyes swimming. He leaned heavily on the balustrade, resting his head on his folded arms.

“A beautiful night,” said a soft voice besides him.

Jon’s head jerked up and the moment he recognised his companion, he pulled himself to his full height. Young as he was, he had a good few inches on Doran Martell and he was prepared to use them. Martell smiled, that same sad smile, and gently shook his head.

“I have no argument with you, Lord Connington,” he said, “And I have no doubt you could best me in a fight even if I did. Battle never was my strength.”

“Can I help you, your grace?” Jon said stiffly, not quite prepared to let down his defensive stance yet. Doran looked at him contemplatively, his dark eyes radiating with intelligence.

“You love him. Your prince, I mean.”

Fighting down the panic that rose in his chest, Jon managed to choke out an answer.

“I do. He is my liege.”

“No,” Doran said, “You _love_ him. Do not try to lie to me, Lord Connington. I can always tell.”

Ridiculously, probably owing to the wine, Jon felt tears pricking at his eyes. Who else knew? Who else had discovered his secret? Who-

“Do not distress yourself, my lord,” the prince said, as though he were a mind reader, “I have no reason to suppose anyone else paid enough attention to work it out.”

He had such a gentle look on his face, so very opposite to the faces Jon had imagined on his secret being discovered, that he had to turn away. He almost couldn’t stand the pity, any more than he would have been able to stand the scorn. He turned back to the balustrade and buried his head in his hands.

“What of it, your grace?” he growled, “Speak if you must.”

“If you had been born a Dornishman, my lord, how much easier your life would have been. In Dorne we see no reason to condemn a man for loving.”

Jon didn’t answer. Doran didn’t need one.

“It is not fair. It is not fair that the gods made you this way and him another, and it is not fair that people do not understand. You have my sympathy, Lord Connington, I who am perhaps the first person to see you need it.”

“I don’t want your sympathy, your grace,” Jon mumbled, the traitorous tears streaming down his face now with abandon, “I want – I want –“

“Him,” Doran said simply, “You want him and he can never be yours. He belongs now to another. I ask you, Lord Connington, I beg of you, please do not resent my sister because of him. Elia has a gentle heart. If she ever knew why you disliked her, she would –”

“She cannot know!” Jon exclaimed, pulling himself to stand again and resisting the urge to hit the prince of Dorne, “You haven’t-”

“No I have not,” Doran said patiently, “And I never shall tell a soul, my lord. I just wish for you to know her better before you condemn her. She would hate to think of anyone suffering on her account and it is not her fault.”

Perhaps it was the kindness in the prince’s words, the non-judgemental air that he had, or perhaps it was the scrap of cloth he offered Jon to wipe his face that became the breaking point, but a promise had bubbled from his lips before he even had time to think.

“I will try, your grace. For her sake. And for his.”

“Thank you, Lord Connington,” Doran said, nodding his head, “That is all I could have rightly asked from you. You are not the one in the wrong here, I hope you know that.”

And then he was gone, as quickly as he had appeared. The music still poured from the hall but the hour was late and Jon knew he could be excused. The party continued long into the night and breakfast was late. He was one of the first to arrive in the hall and he took his seat from the day before. Princes Doran and Oberyn came in a few minutes later, the younger nursing a hangover. Doran didn’t even look at Jon, ignoring him as blatantly as he had watched him the day before.

Only once did this change, when Rhaegar and Elia appeared at the door. Jon got to his feet and waited for them to approach him.  
“Your grace,” he smiled, bowing neatly to his prince, “I trust this morning finds you well.”

“It does,” Rhaegar nodded and Jon turned to Elia, “And you, my princess?”

If Elia was startled by this uncharacteristic extension of his affections, she did not show it. She also smiled, a delicate smile – she really was beautiful – and said gracefully, “Very well, Lord Connington. Thank you.”

They moved up to the high table, besides her brothers, and as he dropped into his seat Jon dared to look up at Prince Doran. The older man’s mouth twitched, his hand repeating the action, and then he looked away. The Martell contingent left for Dorne that evening and left Jon Connington with a memory of a conversation that never did seem quite real, and that last look of satisfaction on Doran’s face. 

Twenty one years later, he would remember what Doran Martell was prepared to do for his sister, and he put pen to paper. If anyone would understand now, it would be him.


End file.
